


In Which There is a Wedding

by BuickTom



Category: Great Pretender (Anime)
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Angst, Drugs, Established Relationship, Fake Marriage, Fluff and Angst, Gangs, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mexico, New Mexico, Revenge, Sort Of, Spain, Torture, Violence, Weddings, except without the s, kind of, not really tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuickTom/pseuds/BuickTom
Summary: Congratulations to the happy couple! Mr. Laurent Thierry and Mr. Makoto Edamura are getting married. Well, kind of...Alternatively, the tale of a kidnapped fake groom turned drug mule. Will he be reunited with his fake husband-to-be? A romance for the ages!
Relationships: Edamura Makoto/Laurent Thierry
Comments: 61
Kudos: 353





	1. In Which There is a Proposal

**JANUARY 16TH 2021 - 8:17 PM CEST**

“Will you marry me, Edamame?” Laurent Thierry was on one knee. Laurent Thierry was looking at him. Laurent Thierry was holding a little black box with a gold ring winking up at Makoto from where it sat nestled in velvet.

Makoto thought he might faint.

This was not how he had anticipated his day would progress when he woke up this morning and there were no more Cheerios. Shit, wait, he probably should’ve seen this coming.

Except that neither Laurent nor Makoto, in their year and a half of dating, had ever brought up marriage. Makoto was fine with that. He didn’t have any family to satisfy and even if he did unearth some distant relatives they would probably be thoroughly disappointed with his decisions.

It wasn’t necessarily that Laurent was a man (though it was kind of that), it was more that Laurent was French. If Makoto ever expected any older Japanese family members to bless a union with Laurent, he was fucked two ways and expecting too much.

Fortunately, he was sufficiently estranged from any living relative.

Laurent had never been the marriage, babies, and mortgage type either way.

Or maybe Makoto had been wrong about that.

So here he was. Twenty-four years old, standing in a three Michelin star restaurant in Madrid, Spain just glad he’d worn a suit coat to dinner. If he hadn’t he was sure that the occupants of the restaurant, who were currently watching him in anticipation, would be able to see his pit stains.

Laurent, on the other hand, peered up at him with a very familiar expression. He was plotting something. Makoto didn’t know what, but he would get to the bottom of it. As soon as he was not distracted by the gold ring. If he had to put a price tag on it, Makoto would say it was about impractically expensive, boarding on nauseating.

“Uh – Yes?” Was all Makoto could manage at this moment. Laurent was quick to cover up his unenthusiastic response, standing and sweeping Makoto into a kiss. Makoto instinctively accepted it in spite of their live audience.

Someone clapped. Everyone was clapping. Makoto was pretty sure he heard a few people cheering as he allowed Laurent to slide the ring on to his finger, dazed. It was a perfect fit. Which was very nice, but what Makoto really wanted was to know what the fuck was going on.

Then Makoto had a moment of clarity. He remembered that he was dating a conman.

He looked around for a moment and eventually spotted a camera angled at them, with one Cynthia Morre on the other side of it. She smiled and gave him a thumbs up.

Oh. He was going to rip Laurent a new one.

“You could have told me.” Makoto neatly removed Laurent’s hand from his thigh as they pulled out of the restaurant’s parking lot. Makoto held onto the small box wrapped with gold ribbon in his lap as Laurent made a wide left turn onto the street. The restaurant’s manager had made an appearance to bestow a congratulatory cake on the happy couple shortly after the proposal.

Makoto didn’t know what was going on, but he wasn’t going to turn down a $100 cake.

“Are we leaving Cynthia here?” Makoto added. She had watched them leave from the entrance of the restaurant after Laurent had her take approximately too many pictures of them.

Laurent smiled, “Oddly, she insisted on riding back separately.”

She knew.

“Fuck you. You know that? You could’ve given me a warning, or I don’t know, clued me in on how this was part of a con?”

“You figured it out.”

“That’s not the point. Laurent, if you’re going to ask me to marry you –“ Makoto cut himself off. Marriage. Laurent had proposed, but were they actually going to get married? No way.

Laurent took the opportunity to say,

“I’ll admit, I was a little hurt by your hesitation, Edamame.”

“If you wanted an enthusiastic yes, you should’ve told me beforehand. Or at least, mention it in a conversation. We have never talked about marriage. Also, don’t try to turn this on me.”

“Of course not. We’ve never talked about real marriage.”

“This isn’t real? I don’t see how this is fake. If we do get married, then we’re married.”

“Don’t worry, _mon tigre._ It’s not Laurent Thierry and Makoto Edamura getting married. It’s David Forn and Jun Kitagawa. Since they don’t exist, for obvious reasons, nobody is actually being wed.”

Makoto wasn’t sure he saw Laurent’s reasoning. He certainly wouldn’t put it past Laurent to actually be civilly married to someone solely for the sake of a con. Makoto loved him, but there wasn’t much sacred to Laurent.

Plus, he was still pissed. He wasn’t in the mood to be reasoned with.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would we need to get… fake married for a job?”

Laurent looked away from the road briefly to pin Makoto with a smile. Makoto was upset by how endearing he found it.

“Because, _mon prefere._ Everybody loves a wedding.”

Makoto made a point of sitting next to Abby instead of Laurent as they gathered around the coffee table. She was eating the cake they had received in a sports bra and sweats. He wanted Laurent to know that he was still angry.

Makoto had immediately taken the ring off when they’d gotten back to the hotel as well. Nobody had to know how carefully he had tucked it between the boxers in his underwear drawer. It was expensive.

“Our lady of the hour is Antonia Monsanto,” Laurent began. Although his expression was relaxed and familiar, there was something about the tilt of his lips which gave him away, “An heiress to the Monsanto group. Well-educated, well-spoken, desirable to many, and all with quite the mean streak.”

Laurent slid his phone over the coffee table to Makoto. Peering up at him from the screen was a pretty woman, maybe in her early-thirties, dark, curly hair with striking amber eyes. Her face was severe, Makoto thought he could probably cut himself on the jut of her jaw. Either way, her eyes warned: _don’t touch! Deadly._

Abby didn’t bother to look at the picture. She had finished her cake and taken up watching a fly desperately attempting escape by repeatedly hitting the window with a bored expression.

Cynthia at least looked like she was trying to pay attention.

Makoto already knew that Laurent had the others join them since Makoto absolutely refused to be alone with him at the moment. The fact that Laurent had let the girls in on this ploy before him pried up his skin and nestled beneath it.

“She likes control,” Laurent continued, apparently unaware of the absolute tsunami brewing in his boyfriend, “Monsanto is notorious for taking advantage of minors.

“Not only that, she doesn’t treat them well. At first she satisfies them with gifts and extravagant vacations with their friends. The longer she pampers them, the more justified she feels in abusing them. More than one sixteen year old has left her home with broken bones. Recently…” Laurent trailed off briefly. It took him a moment longer than usual to regain composure.

“One of her… victims took his own life.”

Suddenly Makoto’s bone to pick with Laurent was buried for digging up at a later date.

“Monsanto immensely enjoys collecting classic cars. She has spent a substantial chunk of her inheritance, against the advice of her parents, on them. Fortunately, we have recently come into possession of a fully restored 1957 Jaguar XKSS. As well as something… very much like it.”

I’ve been corresponding with Monsanto for the past six months, or David Forn has really. Monsanto is interested in purchasing the car. However, she needs a little push to pay the $150 million David is asking for it.”

“That can’t be right. Even rare classics don’t usually go for more than $20 million, right?”

Laurent grinned,

“I love it when you talk mechanics, but you can’t put a price on happiness, Edamame.”

“Okay.” Makoto recalled the incident in London with the seedy art dealer who was left bereft of any funds to speak of, “I don’t see where a wedding comes in.” He crossed his arms and met Laurent’s gaze.

“Of course. David Forn has just gotten engaged to his long-time boyfriend Jun Kitagawa; they will be wed three months from now. I thought you’d like a spring wedding, Edamame.” Makoto bristled. Mostly because Laurent was right. However, he wanted spring in Japan, not Spain. If Makoto were to ever get married at all it would be between the cherry blossoms and crisp air of early April.

It was embarrassing though, especially in front of Cynthia and Abby, so he kept this to himself. Plus, he was still mad at Laurent.

“David has invited Monsanto to attend. She said yes, of course, anything to improve her chances of obtaining the Jaguar. Leading up to the wedding David will inform her of his intention to sell the car, along with the offers which have been made for it. There is no better motivator than jealousy.”

Laurent paused briefly once more, “Especially since David’s groom is quite young looking.”

Makoto leaned forward, “I’m _not_ young though,” at least not by Monsanto’s warped standards, “I’m in my mid-twenties.”

Abby finally looked back to them and the conversation at hand. The fly had gone somewhere, though certainly not out the window. She shrugged and kicked her feet up on the table,

“Of course, she prefers _actual_ children,” Abby commented, “Her father is pressuring her to take a husband. He’ll cut her off if she doesn’t. You can’t marry a fifteen year old. She wouldn’t really want to anyway, the only appeal of marriage to this bitch is the control it gives her. What’s the next best thing to a minor?” Abby gestured to Makoto,

“Someone who looks like one.”

Laurent was gripping his own knees, Makoto looked to him as he added.

“Jun will come crying to Monsanto just before the wedding, begging her to save him from David. In addition, he will convince her to purchase the car alongside his affections.”

Cynthia finally spoke up, crossing her legs then her arms over her chest.

“She can’t resist taking both David’s car and his submissive, young groom. She’s too prideful.”

Makoto got up and left the room.

Makoto knew he had a choice. He was just angry because it didn’t feel like he really did.

He tried not to think about it as he stormed out of the hotel then down the street then through an alleyway then down another street then over a bridge where he briefly saw way too much of a woman’s tongue shoved into her boyfriend’s mouth (maybe not her boyfriend, Makoto thought vaguely, could be a husband or mistress? Mister? Whatever.) He finally stopped when he arrived on the banks of a river.

He spotted a bench, walked to it with purpose, and sat down heavily. It overlooked the city across the water.

It was brightly lit, full of oranges and yellows. Hues that called to mind the warmth of the sun or the bonfire Makoto had attended at the end his high school cultural festival. He had danced with a girl in his year, she had a sweet face and silky, black hair. He had wanted to dance with a third year boy with bleached hair that never sat flat against his head.

That had been a week before his father’s arrest. He hoped both the girl and the boy were doing well now. He was only attracted to one of them, but they had been equally kind to him.

Even in the aftermath. He looked down at his hands, they were orange in the light of the city, the same glow upon them as the night of the bonfire. So, he looked up. Maybe for some kind of peace.

The night sky hung heavy and black over his head; the stars washed from its fabric by light pollution. It was the same in Tokyo.

The river reflected the inky darkness of the sky, only breaking up around the edges to present a rippling image of the glowing city above. Makoto watch it for a while; the way the lights in the water wavered, unattached to the rules of the world they reflected.

Something broke the surface of the water, sinking into the river with a definitive _plunk._ The reflected light scattered into disoriented waves like the tiny flickering flames of candles.

Makoto turned to see where exactly the thing had flown from and who had damned it to its watery grave.

A group of teenagers squatted on the sidewalk behind him; the dress code appeared to be mismatched hoodies, uneven undercuts, and thick soled shoes.

Makoto watched as one of them, a boy about fifteen with ears he still needed to grow into, set up a crushed beer can on the uneven ground. It took him a few tries to persuade it to remain upright. It didn’t help that his hands were probably still big for him too and he kept knocking it over himself.

A waifish girl with a veritable mane of dark, wiry hair and a shredded _Marea_ band-tee stood behind him. After he was finally able to balance the can she nudged the boy with the toe of her boot. The way she was wielding a golf club over her shoulder made Makoto a little nervous.

The boy skittered aside to allow her to step forward and line the club up with the can for a perfect shot. He ultimately squatted close to an older looking boy with a mean looking buzzcut. The older handed his new companion what appeared to be a vape.

Makoto had never really seen one up close since they were illegal in Japan and most smokers preferred cigarettes anyway. The third year with the bleached hair used to smoke during fourth period hidden between the strawberry bushes and heads of cabbage in the tiny school garden. At fifteen the smell of smoke and nicotine had struck Makoto as sexy. Now it felt nearly nostalgic.

The can launched off the ground taking pebbles with it. Makoto approached the kids. The can's descent into the river went unnoticed as seven pairs of eyes turned on him.

Smoke, or was it vapor? Spilled from the boy’s mouth as he glared up at Makoto. They all looked scrappy. Hungry and desperate in only the way teenagers could be. Hungry for something more, a forbidden world barred from them until they reached the threshold of their eighteenth birthdays. The boy Monsanto had driven to suicide would never see his.

Makoto said something foolish then,

“Go home. All of you, and if you have to get into trouble don’t let it be pollution.”

They stared at him for a moment, their eyes seemingly unblinking. Foolishly enough, Makoto felt like he was being watched by a pack of wild dogs. Shit, when had teenagers become this scary?

The teenagers began to speak all at once. Some of them spewing angry words and hot smoke at Makoto. Others making comments to the person next to them at which both kids would laugh in full, crackling pitches. The worst thing was that he understood none of them at all.

They were speaking Spanish, and he couldn’t – wait, there was one word he thought he recognized. One girl, short with the powerful shoulders and thighs of a gymnast, looked at him with contempt,

“ _Chino.”_

Makoto’s whole body felt hot. He couldn’t tell is it was just irritation or real, chiseled, and hardened anger.

Suddenly the pack of kids fell silent, the girl with the wiry hair, their unofficial leader he supposed, had said something to shut them all up. She turned to Makoto and said in somewhat stilted English,

“Go back home, Chinaman.”

The look on her face said this: _I’m hot shit._ Makoto wondered for the briefest moment if he would really feel bad if these delinquents died.

Unfortunately, he would.

“Not before you do.” Makoto levelled with her, she huffed. He already knew that she wasn’t tough shit, just a kicked puppy looking for a new home. He wondered when she would realize it as well.

It didn’t take her long. She must be smart. She smacked her hand against the head of the boy with the buzzcut for no apparent reason, the boy appeared fairly unphased, and uttered some disgruntled command to her friends.

Makoto didn’t know if they were going home, probably not. At least he had tried.

Also, if they had protested harder, he wouldn’t be able to return to the hotel with the shame of receiving a black eye from a 47 kg sixteen year old weighing on him.

He returned to his bench. It only took him one more moment to decide: he would fake marrying Laurent to take down the shit stain that was Antonia Monsando. If he couldn’t convince the kids to go home, at least he could reduce the chances of them falling into hands that would hurt them.

It was fine anyway. He loved Laurent either way and they weren’t actually getting married. He trusted Laurent. Nothing would go wrong.

Makoto was hopelessly lost.

He checked his phone for a moment and immediately shut the screen off. It was 4:18 am and he had 3 percent battery life.

He was pretty sure he’d already been on this street, but he struggled to remember the names of them which felt clumsy on his tongue. Also, he was too prideful to call Laurent. If he called Cynthia she would definitely tell Laurent.

Makoto had seriously considered calling Abby. He ultimately decided against it because she would probably cuss him out for waking her up, come to get him, give him a black eye, hug him, and then hold it over him for years after the fact. All of which was debateably worse than calling Cynthia.

Worst come to worst Makoto was sure he could find his way to the nearest police station and somehow manage to ask for directions.

He walked for another thirty minutes, tripping on a step he had not anticipated causing his ankle to throb painfully. He really hoped it wasn’t sprained. That would be embarrassing.

Finally Makoto crouched into a ball in the middle of the sidewalk, wrapped his arms around his knees, rest his forehead on his arms, thought about it for a while, and took out his phone.

Laurent picked up on the first ring,

“Mako – “

“Don’t say a fucking word Laurent. My phone is at two percent and I’m really fucking lost, okay? I still don’t think I forgive you, but I’m in front of the National Archaeological Museum, I think, and I don’t know what street I’m on. Come get me.” Makoto hoped that Laurent didn’t notice the minute waver in his voice.

“Okay, don –“And Makoto’s phone died. This time he at least afforded himself the dignity of sitting on the steps of the museum before hiding his face in his arms. He really wanted to sleep, and he really didn’t want to cry. Normally, he wouldn’t cry. If there was one thing Makoto had a lot of, it was terrible luck. He hadn’t cried about a lot of things in his life and he wouldn’t start now.

He was just so incredibly tired. This was not how he had anticipated this day to progress when he woke up yesterday morning and discovered that there were no Cheerios.

To be fair, as usual, the situation he found himself in was his own fault.

As usual, Laurent Thierry was the one to rescue Makoto from himself.

“Makoto.” Makoto recognized the voice before he saw his boyfriend (pseudo-fiancé?). His head was still tucked into his arms when he felt Laurent’s hand in his hair. It felt nice.

“I’ll do it.” He mumbled.

“Do what?”

“I’ll fake marry you and seduce the pedophile.” He looked up and hoped Laurent could see the reluctance on his face. It wasn’t reluctance to do the right thing by taking down Monsanto, but reluctance to agree with Laurent after he’d been tricked.

Laurent smiled down at him,

“I knew you would.”

Makoto huffed, “I can’t ever outsmart you, I guess.”

There was silence for a moment as Laurent crouched in front of him, Makoto was swallowed immediately by his eyes. They were so lovely and blue, but more importantly they looked at him with such unbearable fondness, as if he were something as essential to life as breathing. Laurent took hold of Makoto’s arms.

“That’s not why I said that. I knew you would because you are _kind_ , Makoto.”

Makoto hid his face in his arms again, could feel Laurent’s fingertips against his forehead where they gripped his forearms.

“Stop.”

He felt it as Laurent shifted to lean in closer and say into his ear, just for him,

“I love you because you are kind.”

Makoto was too embarrassed to raise his head as he replied, “I love you too.”

Laurent stood up using his leverage on Makoto’s arm to pull the other man up with him. As they began walking, Laurent said,

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you. I thought it would be fun, but it was selfish. I already knew that you didn’t like it.”

Makoto sighed, “I already know why you did it, Laurent. Next time when you propose, use my full name. Maybe I’ll say yes.”

Laurent’s laughed, low and sweet. Makoto had to smile as well when Laurent pressed a kiss to his cheek.


	2. In Which We Fast Forward

**MAY 7TH 2021 - 4:23 PM MDT**

“What do we do?” A child’s voice reached Makoto through the tunnel of unconsciousness.

“I don’t know! Does it look like I know Korean?” Things were starting to sound closer. God, his head hurt.

“Why would you need to? He’s fucking dead.”

Something pointy jabbed him in the side.

“I’m fucking Japanese.” Makoto hissed, “and not dead.”

“Shit! It’s alive!” Suddenly Makoto’s ribs burned. He struggled to catch his breath for a moment. Had one of the little assholes just whacked him with that pokey thing? He managed to crack an eye open and grab the stick before it could come down on him again.

The children squealed, dropped the stick, and scrambled away from where Makoto laid on the ground. Makoto couldn’t see very well at the moment. It was bright and he felt like death, but he could still somewhat make out the two of them.

There was a taller boy with wild shoulder-length hair, most likely the stick wielder and Makoto’s assaulter. The second child was a shorter boy with the same dark hair, hiding behind his friend, fingers wound tight in the hem of the taller’s shirt. They both had brown skin. Makoto couldn’t precisely ascertain what race they were. They weren’t Hispanic, nor were they Asian.

He knew it. He did. The answer lingered just out of reach at the moment.

“Would you stop looking at me like that? Didn’t anybody ever teach you to respect the dead?”

“So, you are dead?” The taller took a brave step towards Makoto.

“Wow! Are you the angry spirit of a World War II internment camp prisoner?”

Makoto rubbed at his eyes with his palms and immediately regretted it because his hands were covered in grit and now it was in his eyes. The skin around his eyes might be stinging as well, it was hard to tell though. Currently, everything hurt.

“What? An internet camp?” Makoto asked, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes that it would alleviate the burning.

“I think he has brain damage…”

“No, he doesn’t! He can’t speak English, dumbass.”

Makoto really wanted to smack some sense into these tiny motherfuckers, but he had more pressing concerns at the moment. Like the fact that he was probably going blind. Although, that wasn’t probably even the worst of it. His whole body ached and burned. He couldn’t pinpoint where one injury ended and another began. Lord help him if gangsters hadn’t been enough.

The children were quiet for a moment.

It was unsettling.

“Tilt your head, Kim Park. I’ve got water here. I’ll wash your eyes out.” Who Makoto ascertain was the taller boy, said.

“I’m Japanese.” Makoto correct, but obediently titled his face upward. The water was surprisingly cold when it first made contact with his skin, but it felt very nice. He hadn’t really noticed how hot he was until now. He reached up to touch his face and immediately regretted it. His skin stung like hell and was burning hot.

“Calm down. You’re super sunburnt and probably have heat stroke, plus it looks like someone put you through a meat grinder. How are you even alive?”

“Yeah, it looks like a giant bee stung you. You’re all gross and flaky.”

“Thanks.” Makoto grunted and tried to stand. He landed painfully (and shamefully) on his ass about two milliseconds later. The smaller boy giggled.

“Don’t worry, Kim! I’ll drag you home!” He grabbed Makoto’s foot and pulled hard just as his brother warned,

“Carter!”

“Fuck!” Makoto cried. It hurt and hurt and hurt. Like someone had ripped his whole foot off. That was not a good sign.

Carter dropped his foot, that hurt too, but he looked upset, so Makoto stifled his pained moan.

“I’m sorry!” His voice was scared.

“It’s – it’s fine.” Makoto grunted. He was dizzy with the pain and suspected that he might pass out soon, “Just. Are your parents around?”

Makoto wasn’t sure if he could trust anyone anymore, but he didn’t know what else to do. His plans had ended at getting out of the boxcar and he honestly hadn’t expected to make it this far.

When he saw Laurent again, he’d better be fucking impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry ;)  
> I'll drop the next chapter very soon! Give me a day or so. (or maybe less...)


	3. In Which a Mistake is Made

**FEBRUARY 20TH 2021 - 7:05 PM CEST**

Antonia Monsanto’s laugh was just as severe as the perfect line of her lips. It was low and pleasant to listen to. Yet, there was something thick and bitter beneath it.

She really was beautiful. At least on the outside.

“I’m sorry Jun, remind me of how old you are. I always forget things like this.” Her voice was low and silky, warmed by a fairly heavy Spanish accent. They had been at dinner with Monsanto for half an hour.

Makoto smiled shyly, looking down at his plate.

“I’ll be turning nineteen at the beginning of April.”

Monsanto’s thin eyebrow’s shot up and her lips parted in a smile. She looked at Laurent,

“David, you cradle robber!” She laughed as if scandalized, “Haven’t you been dating for four years?”

Laurent laughed and smiled conspiratorially, “Don’t tell on me!” Monsanto laughed at that too and Makoto just did his best not to look pissed.

“Jun seems very mature for his age though, in spite of his cute face.” Monsanto flattered Makoto with a perfect smile with two rows of perfect little white teeth.

“David says that all the time too, but I don’t think I’m that mature.”

“Oh, but David flatters. I mean it.” She leaned toward Makoto and winked. He cracked a smile, trying to channel his inner Cynthia and look coy. This better work.

“Well, you don’t have to expose me in front of my fiancé, Antonia.” Laurent commented.

The two laughed again.

“If I wanted to expose you, dear, I’m sure I could dig up a bit more than that.” Her pleasant giggle euthanized the sentence.

“Well, we all have our vices.” Laurent smiled agreeably.

“That’s true.” Monsanto conceded and settled back in her chair. As much as her rail-straight back would allow anyway, which was not very much at all.

“But let’s address the elephant in the room!”

Makoto snapped to attention.

“Let me see the ring, Jun!” Makoto tried to make his sigh of relief as subtle as possible as he set his left hand flat on the table between them.

Monsanto immediately took hold of his hand and brought it closer for inspection. Her skin was dry and cool.

“Oh, it’s beautiful. Simple and very tasteful. It’s well suited to the man who wears it.” She glanced up at Laurent without releasing Makoto’s hand,

“David, I must say, I admire your taste. In cars, in jewelry,” she pinned Makoto with her dark eyes, “And especially in men, it seems. You truly know a lovely thing when you see it.”

She let Makoto’s hand go. He was quick to hide it under the table.

“And you were accusing me of flattery, Antonia! Thank you.”

Monsanto shook her head, “I’m only being honest. Thank you for inviting me out tonight and thank you the wedding invitation. I’m sure it will be absolutely beautiful.”

“It’s our pleasure. Antonia, you’ve been a very good friend to me during this past year. Even though Garcia offered more for the Jaguar, I am still certainly considering you.”

Monsanto shook her head and held her glass of wine towards them.

“Let’s not talk business now. We’re here tonight as friends. To your engagement.”

As Laurent raised his glass as well and agreed, “To our engagement.” Makoto felt a foot slide between his own under the table.

Monsanto’s calf pressed against his and remained there for the rest of dinner.

“My adorable Edamame! You’re irresistible.” Laurent laughed, capturing Makoto under his arm, and peppering his face with kisses as they walked down the street.

“Oh, shut up. Monsanto’s a monster, but she was right about one thing: you’re a flatterer and a liar.” Makoto slid his arm around Laurent’s waist, under his coat. It was chilly tonight, in spite of all the warm orange light of Madrid. Makoto shivered and pressed in closer next to Laurent.

This surprised another laugh out of Laurent, “I’m hurt, but you did agree to marry me. There must be _something_ you like about me.” Makoto scoffed (though it was truly more of a laugh) and tried, weakly, to shrug Laurent’s arm off of his shoulders,

“I really don’t know what I see in you. I am good though. I think Monsanto was trying to seduce me with her foot under the table or something.”

“I noticed,” Laurent’s voice still sounded humorous. After a moment he looked down at Makoto more seriously, “Edamame, let me know if she makes you uncomfortable. You don’t have to do anything.”

Makoto shook his head, “It’s fine. She’s gross, but I’m okay.” Then he gave Laurent a coy smile. This time it came naturally, “Are you worried that I might actually get taken in by her?” Makoto suggested. Laurent looked at him, a bit bewildered,

“I know that I’m dating you, so there’s really no accounting for taste, but I do have standards.”

Laurent’s following smile was awfully sly, “Oh, do you? You’re certainly not above criminals.” They stopped walking. Makoto returned Laurent’s smile.

“No, not criminals,” Makoto backed Laurent a step towards a building to their left, “Not bastards either,” another step, “And definitely not players,” another, “And I guess I don’t stop at Frenchman who are too charming for their own good, either.” Laurent hit a wall. Makoto reached up to wrap a hand around the back of Laurent’s neck. The taller man’s pupils were blown a bit wide, hungry.

His smile was unbearably warm and melted as easily as spun sugar when their lips met.

At first, the kiss was hardly more than an innocent press of the lips. It didn’t stay that way for long. Makoto slid his tongue across the seam of Laurent’s lips, tilted his head just so, and like magic Laurent’s mouth opened to him.

A kiss, Makoto had learned, was a lot like coming home on a snowy day.

That first wave of warm air as you stepped into the house was more welcoming than any hug or greeting you would ever receive. Casting off your coat and gloves and boots was a relief and snuggling beneath a blanket made the whole world feel at peace for a time.

The hot feeling of Laurent’s tongue, his lips, even the way Laurent’s stubbled scratched his skin reminded Makoto of that. He felt welcome and relieved and at peace. Just for a moment, Makoto felt at home in his own skin again.

One of Laurent’s hands slipped under his shirt, trailed up his spine and left chills in its wake. Makoto’s ensuing gasp broke their kiss. It only took a moment for their eager mouths to become reacquainted.

Suddenly, Makoto was very upset with the fact that they were not in their hotel room. Yes, he was very horny right now. No, he was not horny enough to let Laurent Thierry fuck him on a public street in Spain.

Did he consider it for a moment?

Maybe.

Would Laurent ever be privy to that fact?

Absolutely not.

He let go of Laurent and took a step back, efficiently separating them,

“Let’s go back.” Makoto said. Asked. He didn’t know. He wasn’t thinking very straight at the moment. Apparently Laurent wasn’t either because all he could manage was a nod.

As they hurried back, Makoto thought he caught a glimpse of wiry, dark hair, a buzzcut, and big ears. Those little shits. They hadn’t listened at all.

Oh well. Makoto was saving their asses from at least Monsanto soon and he was about to get laid, so they could go fuck themselves for now.

**APRIL 16TH 2021 - 9:08 AM CEST**

“Abby, I can’t do this!”

Makoto had read an article once about a twenty-four year old medical student in Los Angelos who had a mental breakdown after working seventy-two hours straight, drove to Oklahoma, blew five hundred dollars on souvenirs at a state park, walked along the highway because she wanted to find Forrest Gump, and then joined the Jehovah’s Witnesses after a bad acid trip on her third night in Oklahoma City.

He couldn’t remember what happened to her after she had been institutionalized, but he hoped it was good because he currently felt like he was about to become that woman.

“Cool it, soybean, it’s not like you’re _actually_ getting married.”

“I _know_ that.” Makoto hissed, “ _I know._ Except, when Laurent said there was going to be a ceremony I didn’t know he meant that there would be an actual ceremony.”

Abby was currently stretched out across a sofa in the lobby of the venue, they were waiting for Laurent and Cynthia to arrive shortly.

“Well, what the fuck did you think he meant?”

Makoto ignored her, “Abby, I don’t care if this is fake. This feels completely real and I’m going to have to actually stand there with Laurent and the officiator and say the vows.” He crouched down on the floor and buried his face in his arms.

Things were quiet for a while. Abby poked his head,

“Are you done with your tantrum?”

He shook his head,

“Listen, Edamame. Just – uh, I don’t know, think of this as practice?”

He lifted his head to look up at her,

“Yeah! It’s like practice. Get up there, say the stuff you’re supposed to say, kiss Laurent,” she snorted, “That shouldn’t be too hard for you. Then you and Laurent have a conveniently placed argument before the reception, get a little weepy with Monsanto, she buys the car. We dance a little, eat some good fucking food, get drunk, you and Laurent can bang. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be on a beach in Italy and Monsanto will be in federal prison. Another one bites the dust.” She made it sound so easy. Maybe he was overthinking things.

Makoto stood up, carefully brushing lint off his tuxedo pants.

“I don’t know Abby. I’m getting a bad feeling.”

“That’s called indigestion.” Abby got off the couch and slapped him on the back, “Now, let’s get this over with.” She was looking towards the entrance. Makoto glanced over as well.

Laurent and Cynthia had entered the building and were walking towards them.

“I hope you like the venue, Edamame.” Laurent said.

It was a nice venue.

It seemed to be a repurposed Spanish summer home, located in the countryside just outside of Madrid. The home was huge; three stories tall with maybe fifty rooms, two of which were large ballrooms. There was a third, smaller ballroom, but that had been rented out to a different party, so Makoto wasn’t able to see it when he and Abby arrived earlier. The manor was built on about twenty acres of property and the seemed to take up at least one of those acres all by itself.

The outside of the venue was all pale, stucco walls and red shingled eves covered in romantic climbing vines.

The grounds around the mansion were beautiful as well. Lively, green hedges created an impression of privacy with countless flowers, many of which Makoto had never even seen before, arriving at full bloom on every inch of ground.

Their wedding was set for noon in one of the courtyards, which made Makoto a bit nervous because the forecast called for rain today, right around one. Knowing Laurent, however, it was probably all part of the plan.

“It’s alright.” Makoto challenged. “I haven’t seen the courtyard yet, anyway.”

“It’s nice.” Abby affirmed.

“When did you see it?” Makoto asked, trying to recall if they’d ever been separated since they arrived this morning.

“Not today, last night.” She grinned.

Laurent placed a hand on Makoto’s shoulder, “I don’t doubt that the Casa de los Oficios offers wonderful security, I just thought it might be best to bring some of our own.”

Makoto nodded. He’d learned to appreciate Laurent’s endless precautions, even the ones that he was sure he still didn’t know about.

“Well, since our groom hasn’t seen it yet, should we go check out the courtyard now?" Cynthia suggested.

“Why not? We don’t have much to do until the wedding. I’ve asked Kudo and the others to begin arriving in about an hour, at ten.” Laurent gestured for her to lead the way.

As they walked through the halls it was quiet aside from the chirping of morning birds outside. This was the sort of quiet that Makoto would usually appreciate, but he was about to be fake married. So, he was a little too nervous to notice.

Makoto glanced at Laurent. Laurent smiled easily. It was one of those knowing smiles that sometimes pissed him off and sometimes made him feel much better about whatever situation they had found themselves in.

Right now, Makoto thought that it made him feel better. He wasn’t sure though. Jury was still out on that one.

“Oh, here we are.” Cynthia said as they arrived in front of a set of double doors. She opened one and they trailed through.

The weather was perfect. The coolness of morning had not yet waned but didn’t nip or bite unpleasantly at Makoto’s skin. The sun was bright in a kind way as it illuminated the courtyard and soft, cotton ball clouds rolled lazily overhead.

It smelled sweet, floral, and a little heady in the courtyard. Most likely because white, orange, or yellow flowers of every variety seemed to pour out of every vase, every crevice, and climb each wall in the space.

“I hope you like yellow and orange,” Cynthia directed this at Makoto, “Those are the colors I choose for the wedding.”

Makoto shrugged in response, “Why would I care?”

It had fallen on Cynthia to do most of the actual wedding planning. This was because Abby had no taste for these things, Laurent was off doing whatever Laurent always did, and Makoto had no interest. Cynthia had invited Makoto to help her plan. He had told her that he would if she needed the help, but otherwise he had no desire to plan a _fake wedding_ for himself. Or, for Jun Kitagawa, he guessed.

He didn’t even really care what his wedding colors would be for his actual wedding. If he ever actually got married, that is.

Yellow and orange were nice though.

Aside from the flowers, lush bushes and hanging vines lined the walls of the courtyard, there were a few trees as well of some Mediterranean variety. They were tall trees though and abstracted some of the light from above, scattering it into shimmering patterns across the cobblestone pavement and chairs set out for the guests.

There were about one hundred delicate, white chairs in the courtyard split down the middle by an open aisle. So, an intimate wedding. Makoto wasn’t at all surprised that Laurent had one hundred people he could pay to attend their fake wedding.

Farthest from where they stood and in the front of it all was a white garden arch, interwoven with the same yellow, orange, and white flowers that populated the rest of the space. There was a microphone set up under its shade. Off to the side a little behind the arch was an assembly of black cases and a few more chairs, most likely for the band. Cynthia had gotten them a live band.

Makoto had only been to one western wedding in his entire life previous to this moment.

It was a second cousin’s wedding and he, being seven at the time, was elected to serve as the ring-bearer. Most of the wedding had seen Makoto anxiously reciting to himself what exactly he was meant to do during which parts of the ceremony. He couldn’t really recall much other than having to pee approximately five times in the hour before it started. Still, he didn’t remember it being nearly this nice. He certainly didn’t remember a live band.

“You got a live band?” He asked Cynthia.

“Of course,” She looked offended, as if he had doubted her taste, “David and Jun are pretty well off, Edamame. This wedding has to be appropriately pricey.” Then she smiled, that particular beautiful smile that meant she was about to embarrass you,

“Don’t worry, I’ll arrange for a live band when I plan your real wedding as well.”

Makoto sputtered and then elbowed her, “I’m not even actually engaged, Cynthia. Nobody’s talking about any actual weddings.”

She shrugged, “The fake one is so nice, I figure that a real one can’t be far behind.”

“I’m going to ignore that you just said that,” Makoto said, “But… thank you, Cynthia.” She might tease him for it, but Makoto had a sneaking suspicion that Cynthia had made the wedding so nice for more than just the sake of Antonia Monsanto.

“Alright, you’ve seen the courtyard,” Abby butted in, grabbing hold of Makoto’s arm, “Now let’s go to your suite. You’re not allowed to come out until the ceremony. Monsanto might try to come speak with you before the wedding, either way.” She began dragging him towards the doors. Laurent turned to them,

“Abby,” he called. She paused and levelled him with one of those sharp-eyed looks, “Stick with Edamame, alright? I don’t want my groom to get lost right before our big moment.”

Abby snorted, but said, “Don’t worry, I won’t let him wander out into the street and get hit by a car.”

“I’m not a dog!” Makoto bristled.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Abby returned, unphased, and nodded quickly to Laurent and Cynthia before dragging Makoto away.

Abby’s pep talk had actually been quite comforting, not that Makoto would ever admit that to the woman herself, but his nerves were starting to get to him again. He had already excused himself to use the bathroom about three times since he and Abby had arrived in the suite. He kind of had to go again but didn’t want to because he knew Abby was starting to catch on. And holy hell, the teasing would be insufferable.

“It’s alright, Edamame, if you gotta piss again, just go ahead. I know you have the bladder of a little boy.”

Oh no. Makoto glared,

“I don’t have to use the bathroom again, okay? I’m just nervous.”

“Alright.” she yawned.

“Shouldn’t you get changed soon?” Makoto asked. If the too-fancy-to-be-functional clock on the wall was to be trusted, it was almost 11:20. Abby shrugged,

“I’ll get change in fifteen minutes. Nobody is really going to see me anyway; I’m just sitting in the back to fill a chair.”

Makoto would give that to her. He was envious of her. He had to go up there and stand in front of all those people he didn’t even know and pretend to get… scratch pee, Makoto might vomit.

Someone knocked on the door. Makoto jumped, surprised, as Abby gestured for him to get it.

He cracked the door open.

It was Monsanto.

“Jun,” she smiled, she was wearing a dark plum lipstick with a short, plum dress to match. Her teeth looked very white between her purple lips, “I’m sorry if this is inappropriate, but I thought that I might check up on you.”

Makoto shook his head, “No, it’s completely fine.”

She laughed a little, “Nervous?”

Makoto nodded. Lying wasn’t hard for him, but this was particularly easy because he actually _was_ nervous.

“Well, if you need someone to listen, I can spare you a few minutes.” She offered. For a criminal, Monsanto wasn’t hard to play. He nodded again,

“Actually… If you don’t mind,” He rubbed at the back of his neck and looked down at the space between their feet. Monsanto made to enter the room. Abby. Makoto quickly stepped out and closed the door to bar her.

“Ah, can we step out though? It’s a mess in there and some of my party might be coming in and out… I’m not sure if I want them to hear…”

Monsanto smiled like she’d won something nice.

“Of course. Why don’t we walk?”

They began down the hall. It was silent for a minute. Makoto typically would’ve felt awkward with this kind of quiet, but he was busy trying to look hesitant at the moment. Either way, he still did feel awkward, but that had more to do with Monsanto being a pedophile than Makoto’s social shortcomings.

“Jun.” Monsanto placed a hand on his bicep, “I know we’re not very close, but I hope you know that you can speak to me if you have any concerns.”

Makoto took a big, shuttering breath,

“Thank you…” He shifted his eyes around, “It’s just… David…”

Monsanto took the bait,

“What about David?” She was a good liar. The concern in her voice would’ve sounded real if her traitorous mouth hadn’t been on the verge of a smile.

Makoto shook his head, “No, it’s okay. I’m just psyching myself out right now.”

Monsanto stopped walking, her hand tightened around his arm keeping him from moving forward either,

“Jun,” She stepped a little closer, “You can tell me anything. If David is… doing anything to you…”

Makoto thought of dead puppies, that time he had been taking the trash from lunch out with his classmate in second grade and she threw the bag at him, when he found out about his father, when he was falsely arrested, all the times he was told that he would never be anything more than a criminal, when he found out that his mother had passed. Tears fell freely down his cheeks and plummeted to the hardwood floor below.

“It’s –“ He shuddered, “It’s not that bad… he only does it every once in a while…”

“Does what?” The thinly veiled excitement in her voice was bone-chilling,

“He – David hits me…”

“Oh, Jun.” Monsanto pulled him into a hug, “We can leave now. You don’t have to go through with this.”

It took Makoto a moment to convince his body to return the gesture.

“No. I can’t, my parents they won’t take me back… I don’t have anywhere…” He buried his face in her shoulder and sobbed. He hoped that his snot would ruin her dress.

She rubbed his back soothingly,

“Oh, Jun. Don’t worry about that, you can come live with me. I have plenty of resources.”

He lifted his head from her shoulder and hoped that he looked hopeful instead of disturbed, “But… but the car?”

She shook her head, “Don’t worry about the car – “

“No! I want you to buy that car from him. Someone needs to take David down a peg!” Makoto interrupted, “He always goes on about how nobody else can afford it, nobody is as successful as he is. He talks about you behind your back, you know that? He says that you’re just a trust-fund baby, you’ve never accomplished anything on your own, and you couldn’t afford the price he’s asking for the Jaguar in spite of all that.” He felt Monsanto’s arms tighten around him, nearly vice-like. Makoto bit his lip, hesitated and then looked at her again,

“I’ll – I’ll go through with wedding! Then you buy the Jaguar from him, I have access to his accounts so I can drain them for you, then – then I can leave him and come live with you!”

She smiled, readjusting her arms so they were wrapped around his neck.

“Oh, Jun, I knew you were very smart for your age.”

Jun smiled as well and averted his eyes, letting his arms snake around her waist “Thank you, I just have never had anyone like you to offer me a place to go and… and ask me if I’m okay.”

She moved a hand to brush some hair out of his eyes. He hoped that if she noticed the way he shivered, she would think it was from anticipation. Then Monsanto guided his head down and kissed him.

He wanted to retched.

He fought his own body not to shove her away. He hoped, once more, that she would chalk up his unenthusiastic response to reservation and inexperience.

When they broke apart, she whispered in his ear,

“Oh Jun, you’re so cute.”

When Laurent did the same thing, it lit a fire in his belly, warm and wanting. Someone else doing it, especially someone like Monsanto, tore him apart. His skin was crawling like some kind of pest have moved in beneath it. He took in a shuttering breathe. She finally released him.

Makoto had to remind himself of all of the boys she had abused, degraded, and traumatized. This was for them and her would-be victims.

“Would you like me to walk you back to your room?” She asked.

Makoto shook his head and said,

“I need to use the restroom.” Monsanto’s eyebrows tilted up and she smiled knowingly,

“You should go find your seat.” He added.

“Alright,” She brushed her shoulder as she left. Makoto had never been happier to see anyone go. He really did need to go to the bathroom, but not to relieve a boner. He needed to find somewhere away from prying eyes to have a mild panic attack.

“Oh! Are you here for Jun and David’s –“ Makoto heard Monsanto’s voice behind him. He thought he also heard Abby’s responding, she must’ve followed them to keep an eye on him. He didn’t really care at the moment. He just needed to be alone.

He glanced up at the clock in the hall as he headed for the bathroom he’d already visited three times in the past hour. It looked like 11:48. Shit.

Okay. Makoto just needed a few moments to himself.

Maybe he could call Laurent and that would make him feel better. He patted his suit and pants’ pockets for his phone and came up with nothing. Shit. He must have left it in the suite.

Oh well, he’d see the man very soon anyway.

Makoto slammed into another body. Hard. It took him a moment to catch his breath and look up to apologize to the person. It was a short, bald man in jeans and a black polo shirt. Huh. Weird, maybe one of the other weddings had a casual dress-code?

Makoto opened his mouth to apologize. He never got to.

The man grabbed Makoto by the collar of his suit jacket and kneed him in the stomach with such force that Makoto didn’t even have the breath to finish yelling,

“Abb-“

Makoto tried to struggled, he had height on the man at least. One of his shoes came off in his efforts to knock the man off his feet. It was futile. He felt something prick him in the back of the neck.

Abby wanted to punch Antonia Monsanto’s face in. Not only was the woman severely morally corrupt, she was long-winded. As far as Abby was concerned she deserved to get robbed blind for the latter attribute alone.

As soon as Monsanto let her go, Abby walked as fast as might be considered reasonable for a wedding venue down the hall where she had seen Edamame disappear after his conversation with Antonia. Why hadn’t he just returned to the suite?

That asshat.

Abby wasn’t a worrier, but something just felt off. She remembered Edamame telling her that he had a bad feeling earlier that morning. That made her feel a little better.

If Edamame believed it then that was probably just his Japanese superstition.

The relief didn’t last long.

There in the middle of the hall for no fucking reason at all, was Makoto Edamura’s shoe.

Abby picked it up and looked at it for a moment as if it would reveal the secrets of Edamame’s location to her.

“Edamame?” She called out. Not response. She began walking again.

“Edamame!” she sped up a little. She checked her phone for the time. 11:55. Shit. Maybe he had gone to the courtyard already. But without his shoe?

Abby turned around to go to the courtyard. She didn’t have time for this. She began to run.

When she burst into the courtyard, nobody turned to look at her. The dull roar of the guests conversing drowned out the sound of the doors. She scanned the crowd. No Edamame.

Laurent and Cynthia stood at the front with the officiator who was one of Laurent’s old acquaintances from a con in Sao Paulo.

Abby slowed her pace down to a march as she approached them. She didn’t want to notify anyone to anything being out of place before Laurent and Cynthia knew.

“Laurent.” Her voice was hard. The man turned to look at her with a smile. It faded quickly when she held up Edamame’s shoe, “This better be a fucking joke.”


	4. In Which There is Mild Pain

**April 19 TH, 2021 – 12:06 PM MDT**

_You’re looking good just like a snake in the grass, one of these days you’re gonna break your glass…_

Was the first thing Makoto heard over a funky guitar riff as he first eased into conscious and then hurled all the way back into it at once. Hazily, he thought that he recognized this tune. Cynthia had, had a classic rock kick about a month back. Was it the Electric Chair something? No, it was the Electric…

“Fuckin’ turn that shit down, Juan.”

“Huh? The fuck would I do that? Electric Light Orchestra is a classic, man.”

Right. That was it. Electric Light Orchestra.

_I’ll tell you once more…_

“Not when this is the hundredth fucking time I’ve listened to this shit today.”

Makoto vaguely heard something metallic clattering against the floor or the wall or some other similarly hard surface.

“Hey! Watch it, man! That shit’s gotta be a biohazard!”

“Yeah? I hope you turn into the fucking swampman.”

_Don’t bring me down, no, no, no…._

“It would have to be radioactive for that, asshat.”

“Whatever, just hand me the fucking phone. I’m changing the song.”

Makoto heard a few grunts and a smacking sound then a woman’s voice began to croon sweetly,

_Doesn’t take much to make me happy…_

“Hey!” It was loud. The shout clanged off Makoto’s skull like a rock off a broken bell and left him buzzing in pain.

He tried to groan. Except he couldn’t. There was something shoved down his throat. Like all the way down. That probably wasn’t a good sign.

“Ah, shit. You woke him up.”

“At least we know he’s not dead. Ramirez would’ve chopped our dicks off and fed them to us if he died.” Makoto felt the heat of bodies crowding in around him. He focused on his breathing.

Which was actually not that easy, presently. Makoto was painfully aware of the way he was noisily sucking in hot air through his nose. Makoto hated it when people breathed loudly. However, breathing quietly – scratch that – breathing at all, with something penetrating your oral cavity was not a very simple or pleasant task, as Makoto was quickly discovering. It was whole lot like attempting to deep throat for the first time (not as easy as it looks, as it turns out), except Makoto was caught in that moment right before his gag reflex kicked in and he choked.

“Thanks for that image, shithead.”

“Welcome.” After a moment, the same voice added, “Should we take it out?” Whatever he was referring to, Makoto thought that was a very good idea.

“Nah,” A more nasally voice replied. Makoto strongly disagreed. “Better leave it in. Don’t want him kicking the bucket cause we didn’t pump it all.”

Wait. All of what?

Makoto chanced cracking his eyes open, briefly felt as if someone had put a bullet between his eyes, and promptly squeezed them shut again. Bad decision. Bad, bad decision.

“Uh. I think he’s really waking up.” Makoto’s head throbbed in time with the faint buzzing of a light fixture somewhere overhead.

“Okay? It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

Makoto bristled at that, or at least as much as he could when his entire body felt like a soggy diaper. Who was this fucker to tell him what he was going to do?

He had every intention of getting out of here right this very second, thank you very much.

He had a wedding to be at.

Oh.

Makoto was supposed to be the married Jun Kitagawa right now.

 _Shit._ He tried to lift his arm; his index finger twitched.

“Well, what do we do? Just leave him like that? I kinda feel bad for him.”

“Yeah, I don’t, whatever let’s leave him for now. Why don’t you go through the stuff?”

“What? No fucking way. I did it last time and it smells like shit.”

“Of course, it smells like shit, dumbass, it _is_ shit. I had to sit here pumping yesterday’s breakfast out of this asshole for the past three hours. You think that was fun?”

“There wasn’t even anything in there beside stomach acid!”

“Whatever. He’s Asian. They have fast metabolisms or some shit, that means their stomachs empty faster. That’s why they’re so tiny.” Makoto was ninety-eight percent sure that wasn’t how it worked.

“Oh. If their stomachs empty faster, doesn’t that mean they gotta shit more?”

“Probably. Hell, if I know, do I look Asian?”

“Man, you look like the next fucking candidate for America’s Biggest Loser.”

“Some Asians are fat!”

“Like fucking who?”

“I don’t know. Fucking… fucking… sumo wrestlers! I’m telling you I watched this YouTube video about…”

It was at this point that Makoto checked out, plummeting back into blessed unconsciousness.

The next time Makoto had the pleasure of rejoining the world of the waking, he had two thoughts. One: he was very thirsty. Two: he was very cold. Like cold after coming straight out of a hot shower, cold. Like butt-naked cold. Now that he thought about it. He was butt-naked. Okay, maybe not completely naked, but he was fairly certain that only the barest modicum of his modesty was currently being preserved by an unfortunately tight pair of underwear.

“I told you – we should’ve gotten a small.”

“Well, I told you, they didn’t have anymore smalls, just extra small or extra extra extra fucking large.”

“Couldn’t you have at least gotten boxers? It’s fucking awkward looking at the outline of some other dude’s dick.”

“Then don’t fucking look at his dick, pervert. Also, it was a gas station, not Walmart. It was this or a leopard print thong.”

“We could’ve kept his other clothing.”

“Did you wanna wash them?”

“Not my fault you forgot to take them off!”

What the hell were they talking about?

“What… the fuck?” Makoto tried. Kind of succeeded. Was pleased to find that, at least, the thing in his mouth had been removed at some point. Was displeased to find that it felt like he had swallowed a slab of splintered wood and then chased it with two or three shots of rusty nails.

“Shit. He’s up again.”

Makoto tried to open his eyes, more cautious with the consequences of his first attempt still fresh on his mind. It was bright. His head still hurt, but he was able to keep them cracked open after a lot of blinking and watering. He turned his head minutely to look at his company. Then, all at once, Makoto remembered that he had quite literally had been kidnapped, or at least that seemed to be the case. The past few days were a blur. With this information in mind, Makoto decided that it was probably about time to clear the fuck out.

Makoto sprung up and bolted for the door, propelled solely by adrenaline and the knowledge that these men had seen his dick.

Said men looked about as surprised as one might be to find that their rotisserie chicken had jumped off its platter and made a run for it. Makoto sincerely hoped they valued his life more than they would a rotisserie chicken.

He didn’t stick around to find out.

He burst outside, ignoring the sound of something crashing and shattering behind him, and stumbled down a few uneven wooden stairs. The ground was dusty and very, unfortunately hot and he was very, unfortunately barefoot. Even so, that wasn’t exactly his first concern at the moment. Probably not even the second or a close third. Makoto kept running, even though every one of his muscles in his arms, legs, chest screamed painfully with each movement.

He had no fucking idea where he was running to as it was becoming rapidly apparent that he had been dropped in the middle of a wasteland. The sun was red and hot as it wavered low on the horizon, sinking behind huge plateaus in the distance, a dirt road stumbled hazily towards them. Makoto figured running was better than the only alternative, which was just: _not_ running.

_Crack!_

White, hot pain shot through Makoto’s foot, he stumbled and then crashed earthward, felt the sting as his knees and bare chest and forearms skidded along the unforgiving earth, void of any grass to cushion his fall. He tasted the dryness of the ground as his teeth cracked painfully against it.

Something about as heavy as a dump truck crash-landed on Makoto’s back. It forced the air out of his already incapacitated lungs. He wheezed and then spluttered as the blood dripping from his nose ran into his mouth. Gross.

“Shit!” The Dump truck gasped, “You’re a quick little fucker.”

Makoto spat a glob of blood into the dirt spitefully and heaved,

“Shut up – you… fat fuck.”

Dump Truck grabbed him by his bicep and hefted Makoto up. Makoto tried to grab hold of the hand and pry Dump Truck’s fingers away. All that got him was a hand around his neck.

Makoto was quite tired of not-breathing at this point and was currently bleeding heavily out of one orifice and many other places. Also, if the incredible pain in his foot was anything to go by, he’d probably just been shot. Makoto was struggling to think clearly, so he just concluded that you win some, you lose some and he’d just lost. Badly.

Makoto had been losing a lot recently.

Once Dump Truck had dragged him back up the stairs and into the trailer, he very impolitely cast Makoto to the floor.

Makoto kind of just laid there for a moment. He would get up in a little bit. Between waking up nearly naked with two guys arguing about Electric Chair Orchestra and apparently having his stomach pumped and not remembering anything from the past few days (weeks?) except an airport and condoms embarking on brave expeditions to places no condom has ever gone, he was getting real tired of this shit.

“Why’d you shoot him, Juan?”

“What do you mean, why’d I shoot him? He was running and you’re slow as fuck.”

“I woulda got him on my own.”

“Well, at least, he won’t be running anywhere anytime soon. “

Makoto tried to sit up, if he was going to be the only one in his underwear he could at least afford himself some dignity. He groaned,

“Can you shut up for two seconds? I’m right fucking here, also I just got fucking shot.”

Makoto rasped. He wasn’t sure how intelligible it was, but it seemed to get the message across because the two men turned to look down at him. Having a clear view of their faces for the first time, Makoto remembered. He couldn’t help the way his hands shook.

**APRIL 17 TH, 2021 – 4:26 AM CEST**

Laurent Thierry was God’s favorite. Well, sort of, anyway. That was what Cynthia Moore had learned in nearly a decade of friendship with the man.

Most people didn’t know anything about Laurent Thierry. Some people knew something about Laurent. Nobody knew everything about him. Makoto, however, had been – still was, she reminded herself – coming closer to joining the last group, day-by-day. He was doing it the same way he had weaseled his way into Cynthia’s heart.

Laurent was God’s favorite because he always had a plan and he knew that his plans could fail, but somehow they never did. Except this time. That’s because the other thing Cynthia had learned about Laurent was that he had no luck in the romance department.

He had to drag Makoto across the globe for four years before Makoto agreed to date him. Now that she thought about it, though, it might just be that Laurent was terrible at dating.

Still, having your boyfriend mysteriously disappear at your faux wedding seemed to casually travel beyond terrible at dating and strolled straight into the tundra of fate wanting you to be alone until the end of time. That’s what Cynthia would’ve told Laurent anyway, if one: she didn’t care for Makoto Edamura herself, and two: if Laurent was in anyway consolable at the moment.

Because he really wasn’t.

He had been staring at the ketchup stain near the collar of his shirt for the past thirty minutes. Cynthia wondered if it reminded him of Edamame, then subsequently wondered how it possibly could remind him of Edamame, and then concluded that it really didn’t matter. The angle Laurent had to tilt his face to look at the stain made him look very unattractive and was probably terrible for his neck. Also, she wanted to freak out too.

After they confirmed Edamura’s absence, Abby had punched Laurent and then punched a wall and broke four of her knuckles. As a result, Cynthia had spent the first two hours following Edamame’s disappearance in the ER.

To make matters worse, Laurent’s soul was currently departed from the mortal realm and he now seemed to be cashing in on all his unused vacation days for a spiritual journey via ketchup.

It didn’t feel very fair because this all just meant that Cynthia had be to the level-headed one. All she really wanted to do was curl up with one of Edamame’s shirts and cry and then not tell him about it when he came back.

Except there had only been one other time Cynthia had ever seen Laurent look like this, so she said,

“How much longer are you going to just sit there, Laurent? I’m sure Edamame – wherever he is – has some ideas about how to get himself out of this. You can’t let him do that alone.”

**APRIL 19 TH,2021 – 8:26 PM MDT**

Makoto had absolutely no idea of how to get himself out of this. He had thought about it hard and long, there wasn’t much else to do at the moment, and ultimately came to the conclusion: he was fucked a thousand ways. Satan’s cock didn’t feel very nice.

It didn’t help that he could hardly think over the palpitating of his own heart. He could hear it, pounding furiously in his own ears. He could feel it too, a dull, persisting throb. It nearly hurt. His face, particularly his nose and jaw, actually did hurt.

He tried to breath out, slow through his nose and then focus on the way his chest pushed outward as he sucked air through his mouth. It was difficult both because his throat burned and because he felt that he could never breath enough, like there was something squeezing his chest and keeping the air from it. That made his heart pick up the pace.

Still he kept rolling the idea of escape over in his mind, smoothing thoughts out like a river pushing over stones. They grew smaller and smaller, incrementally, until they became nothing at all.

But. If he didn’t think about this then he would think about everything else. That wasn’t a good idea. He’d already done that about an hour ago, before Juan and Dump Truck tied his hands behind his back, immobilizing him by looping the slack between them through the slates of an air vent on the floor. He was reminded by the way the rope chafed against his wrists, just this side of too tight. His heart beat, more furious.

The A/C had kicked on about fifteen minutes ago. Makoto’s hands were freezing. Also, he was still in his underwear.

He tried to focus on that, too exhausted and delirious with pain. Juan had removed the bullet from his foot and wrapped the wound at some point during Makoto’s mental breakdown, but it still throbbed like a bitch.

Along with every other part of his body. Now, aside from his failed escape earlier today, Makoto knew why his whole body was in pain though.

Ah. Fuck it. Makoto let the memories curl in, bowing his head at the force of them.

**APRIL 17 TH 2021 – 2:14 AM CEST**

Makoto faded in and out of consciousness, collecting information in bits and squirreling them away for further examination as soon as his head stopped feeling like a brick.

Here a phrase, overheard: _“how many can he take?”_

There the bitter taste of a pill forced down his throat. It lodged there for a moment before reluctantly completing its journey. _Strange._ It occurred to him that he had made no conscious effort to swallow the thing. That didn’t seem right.

Oh well. Thinking was a Herculean task. He would revisit this once things started to make sense again. He felt warm fingers, metallic and salty, push past his lips and force something substantially bigger than the pill over his tongue and down his throat. It hurt. Makoto thought whatever it was, it wasn’t supposed to go down that way.

The fingers intruded once again, persistent in stowing another object of similar size and heft. Makoto became aware that he had a body. It felt as if he didn’t and though it was hard to glimpse reason through the fog in his head, he thought that probably wasn’t right either. He was helpless to it. He tried to pry his eyelids open, but they were stuck stubbornly shut. Another object was forced into him. It occurred to him that he might be able to bite down on the fingers as they pushed. He tried it. He managed a twitch. Someone chuckled. That was the last thing Makoto heard.

“Hey, rise and shine, little prince.” Was the only warning Makoto got before he was shocked awake by a sudden blast of cold air. He opened his eyes and shot up, felt very dizzy for a moment and then gagged. He gagged but didn’t throw up. That was because something unusually large seemed to have taken up residence in his esophagus. He coughed and drooled onto his lap for a moment.

Someone thumped him on the back,

“You doing okay, bub?” It took him a moment to realize whoever it was, they were actually speaking Japanese.

Makoto looked up at them and blinked. And blinked. And blinked. He wasn’t sure if it was because he felt like he’d been stuffed full of cotton or if he was just surprised. A tall woman with white-blonde hair and pale blue eyes loomed over him. She had one hand propped on her hip and wore the expression of a mother handling a wayward teenage son. Makoto also noted that she wore her hair in a particularly utilitarian ponytail, pulled straight back with no embellishment.

“I served a mission for my church, well when I went to church, in Japan about fifteen years ago.” She shrugged, altogether too casual considering every aspect of this conversation. She grinned,

“Who knew I’d get to use it for this gig.”

Makoto found that he really didn’t care where she had learned Japanese given the fact that he was slowly remembering that he should not at this very moment, and likely not ever, be here.

“What did you do?” He asked calmly, his voice was hoarse. Knowing Laurent, he’d be out of here by the end of the hour.

She looked dangerously excited by this inquiry. The woman turned from him for a moment:

“I’m Chelsea, by the way. That’s not my real name, of course. Let me just – let’s see – okay, here you go.” She turned back to him and tossed something in his general direction. Makoto tried to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was out of commission presently. It bounced off his forearm and fell in his lap.

Makoto picked it up. It was…

“A condom?” He croaked. He began prying it open. A little baggy fell out and plopped down on the floor, matter of factly.

He stared at the baggy for a moment. He already knew what it was, or at least what it looked like it was. It was just that his brain was having a hard time accepting that he knew precisely what this should be.

“It’s coke.” Chelsea ripped the band-aid off, Makoto flinched “You’ve gotta be a bit more careful with the merchandise, Edamame.” She bent to scoop the bag of coke off the floor.

Makoto startled.

“What?” he asked, about all of it. The nickname, the drugs, his life.

“Cute nickname. Seems kind of racist, not very PC, but whatever. Your boyfriend is a real sweetheart, isn’t he?” They looked at one another for a moment. Makoto trying to puzzle out how he found himself here at all and Chelsea looking unfairly smug. Eventually, Chelsea probably got impatient because she continued,

“You know how much this shit is worth?” She tossed the baggy up and caught it squarely in the palm of her hand, “A lot. That’s how much. That means right now, you’re worth about – “She cocked her head and squinted at Makoto, sucking in air between her teeth in that thoughtful way Japanese people tend to, “$84,000? $90,000? You’d better be careful.”

Makoto didn’t understand. A suspicion formulated in the very back of his mind and crept down his spine, curling uncomfortably about his stomach.

“Did you?” He eyed the baggy In Chelsea’s hand. She grinned, looking much too pleased, tossed the bag again. She nodded.

Makoto stood up suddenly and immediately crashed down on his knees. He steadied himself with his hands, fending off the dizziness with sheer willpower. He wanted to vomit. Like, he _really_ wanted to vomit. For multiple reasons.

He gagged for a couple minutes, but nothing gave.

Determining that he had most definitely been drugged, Makoto stumbled to his feet and glared at the woman.

“Yeah. Sorry about that, I really don’t want you to throw up in the next twenty-four hours or so. Or, shitting, preferably.”

She glanced down at the digital clock on the bedside table and wandered over to the door. Oh, there was a door. As Chelsea crouched to pull on a pair of black work boots, Makoto estimated his chances of success at smashing her over the head with the alarm clock and making a break. Then he saw the pistol, black and business-like, in the back pocket of her jeans.

Oh.

Chelsea rose and tossed a pair of converse at him. They were clearly too big.

“Let’s get a move on, Edamame. You’ve got about sixty of those babies in you right now. You’re practically bursting.”

“Don’t call me that.” Was the best he could stutter out as he pulled the shoes on, not bothering to tie them. He probably didn’t have the presence of mind to at the moment, either way.

His mind was wild, straining to break free from its reins. Unfortunately, due to what Makoto suspected to be an excess of drugs currently pumping through his system, those reins were unfairly tight. In spite of all his actual intentions, he kind of just wanted to go along with her. Laurent would find him. Makoto’s mind assuaged. He wouldn’t be here long. It soothed. He could just follow Chelsea, do the easy thing, and not get shot. He was also just still stuck on the detail that there were currently sixty condoms filled with coke inside of him.

He wished he could vomit. Not just because he wanted them out. Because he felt like one wrong move might burst one open and end him in two seconds flat. Makoto was painfully aware of the way the cold air stung its way down his throat as they left the building. It seemed to be a small bed and breakfast on an even smaller road. Makoto didn’t think he was in Madrid anymore. He may not even be in Spain.

It was overcast, washing out the landscape before them. Makoto’s skin tingled unpleasantly with the chill of the air. His head felt particularly cold. Oddly. Makoto realized that he was no longer wearing his tuxedo from the wedding, but instead donned a red sweatshirt and jeans. The prospect of this stranger changing him while he had been unconscious simultaneously irked him and cowed him.

“What happened to my suit?” He chanced. It was a rental and undoubtedly very expensive, just thinking of what may have become of it made Makoto a little queasy.

Chelsea was leading them out to a gravel parking lot in front of the Bed and Breakfast. Her hand brushed over the handle of the pistol in her pocket as she adjusted the hem of her sweater.

“Hm? Oh, I had to get rid of your other clothes. Sorry if that rental was expensive.” All this left Makoto with was the feeling that he shouldn’t have asked in the first place. The information wasn’t doing much for him, either way, other than making him feel a little less optimistic about his chances of making it back in time for dinner.

They approached a silver sedan, equally likely to be a Nissan or Honda or Toyota or some other generic variation of Japanese origins. It was only distinct in its indistinctiveness. Chelsea unlocked the car with a fob and swung the passenger door open for Makoto.

“Also, sorry about your hair.” She had taken out the gun, all casual, and pressed it Makoto side. “Now, let’s speed this up. You’ve got a flight to catch.”

Makoto easily dropped into the passenger seat. Somewhat because there was a gun pressed to his side, somewhat because he had brought a hand up to feel his hair and then didn’t _._ He didn’t feel his hair because _it wasn’t there anymore._ Chelsea shut the door on him.

“Yeah.” She huffed as she got into the driver side and started up the car. It fussed for a bit over her next words,

“You were cuter with hair.” The engine caught and ignited. The brakes _clunked_ loudly as Chelsea took the vehicle out of park.

”Don’t worry you’re still cu – well, actually, _do_ worry, just maybe not about the hair. I’m guessing that looking cute really won’t be near the top of the list of your priorities in the near future.” She observed over the sound of gravel crunching under the sedan’s tires.

Makoto tried to think of something to say in response, ended up just trying to continue to breathe. The car beeped. Chelsea whacked him in the chest with the back of one hand. Makoto startled,

“Hey. Seatbelt.”

Makoto considered rebelling for a moment, considered jumping from the vehicle, remembered the sixty coke condoms being held hostage in his digestive tract, and realized that if he wanted to die so badly being shot was probably a more painless option. He put his seatbelt on.

“Thank you.” Chelsea began fiddling with the radio. As she switched through channels at a rapid fire pace, Makoto realized that the stations were in English. This information was only somewhat helpful.

Considering that English is the most spoken language in the world.

Chelsea settled on some unholy marriage of disco-polka revival music. She really seemed to like it either way, she even hummed for a moment. Then,

“Shit. I feel a little bit bad for you.” She sighed and turned down the music, “Look, Edamame.” Makoto still felt some unnamed muscle in his jaw flinch, displeased at the nickname.

“This really isn’t a personal thing. Not for me and not towards you, anyway. I think it _is_ personal for Ramirez. Don’t ask me why, he’s got a major boner to jerk with Laurent Thierry.” _Of course._ “And, well, sometimes you get unlucky and happen to be in a relationship with the wrong asshole - that’s you – and you end up with your hair shaved off and your stomach full of contraband. Nothing personal.” Chelsea said. She seemed quite satisfied with this explanation and equally disinterested in hearing any of Makoto’s input on it, so Chelsea turned up the music again and began singing, unabashedly.

Makoto rested his cheek against the frigid glass of the window and watched his breath fog it up, trying to understand even one part of what the woman had just told him. Ramirez? The name really didn’t ring any bells. Neither did Chelsea, but then she had said it was a fake. Makoto took a moment to wrack his brain. On the other end of that moment, Makoto had come to two conclusions, neither of which had anything to do with someone named Ramirez.

One: he didn’t think this was a part of Laurent’s plan.

Two: he still could get any solid grip on where he was.

Maybe it was because his mind was still struggling out of the muck Chelsea and drugs had kindly hurdled it into, maybe it was because they were driving through a flat countryside, devoid of anything except sparse barbed wire fence and the occasion ragged sheep. Makoto began picking at his cuticles. Chelsea wasn’t a very good singer, she also seemed to have some vendetta against the heater because she hadn’t turned it on. Makoto felt simultaneously exhausted and wired by his circumstances.

His stomached turned and Makoto wondered if he would be sick. Then he remembered. Yeah, he probably wouldn’t be vomiting anytime soon. He began fiddling with the drawstring on the hood of his sweatshirt. Then Makoto had an idea. A stupid idea, but it was an idea and he clung to that. Carefully, moving only slightly, Makoto pulled the drawstring out of it’s hole. He stowed it away in his pocket and brushed one hand over the fuzz on the back of his head. He wished he still had hair, for multiple reasons, but mostly because that was really the only identifier he had left.

“Did you throw the ring away?” Makoto asked, softly, hoping he sounded distraught. It wasn’t too hard, considering he actually was distraught.

Chelsea kept singing, and for a moment he wondered if she hadn’t heard or was just ignoring him,

“Oh. Why, did you want it?”

“No…” _Shit._

“Sorry, bub.”

Makoto began picking at his cuticles again. They were entering a copse of buildings, finally the beginnings of some form of civilization. Chelsea slammed on the brakes and nearly rear ended the person in front of them at the first light they hit. Makoto accidentally ripped up his cuticle, it burned. He instinctively stuck his finger into his mouth. He hated the taste of blood. Wait. Makoto removed his finger from his mouth, watched blood bead up on his nailbed.

Makoto removed the drawstring from his pocket with his other hand and then wrapped it around the bleeding finger. This was probably useless. The chances that this drawstring would be found by one of the others if they could even track him this far and then tied back him was nigh impossible. All this really was, was Makoto feeling desperate to do anything to help his circumstances at all.

Suddenly it occurred to Makoto that he could very much die in the next twenty-four hours, if not sooner. He stowed the bloodied lace back in his pocket.

“Why?” He asked, shakily.

“Why what?” Chelsea glanced at him, sounding genuinely curious. What an odd woman.

“Why the… drugs?”

“Oh.” Chelsea shrugged, “Honestly, don’t know. Ramirez wanted it that way. Probably ‘cause he can. He’s a huge asshole.”

It was an answer. It was even a whole answer. That didn’t make it a satisfying one.

As they pulled into the parking lot of what appeared to be a small airport, it was becoming increasingly apparent that no one was coming to save his sorry ass. Which was bad news because his head still felt like the way a spinning top wobbled a lot right before tipping over. Chelsea killed the engine and then twisted to reach into the backseat. She tossed a backpack into Makoto’s lap. His hands immediately went to the zippers,

“Don’t get excited. It’s just some t-shirts, toothpaste, peanuts laced with loperamide. It would be a bit weird if you were travelling without any luggage.”

Makoto rifled through the bag anyway. Infuriatingly, he found, that she was precisely correct. He zipped it up again, a little resentful.

Then, Chelsea was leaning into his space. She unlatched the glove compartment, shoved the pistol in without preamble, and slammed it shut. Makoto hoped that she didn’t notice the way he flinched. She grinned up at him cheekily,

“You’re the one full of drugs, so maybe think on it for a bit before you squeal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, seriously I wanted to have a lot more happen in this chapter but I didn't realize just how much had to happen before the things I wanted to happen could happen...
> 
> Either way, this was another one brought to you by Adderall (TM) and sleep deprivation. Honestly, this is not good I have 18 credit hours and 3 jobs to worry about, I need to stop thinking about GP.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any mistakes I wrote this at 2:00 am in an (legally used) adderall induced haze. 
> 
> Also, I promise there will be real action next chapter. I just had to post this or I would keep going instead of sleeping. As always, comments, bookmarks, and kudos are very appreciated.


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